


this is how much we share

by halcydonia



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7587067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcydonia/pseuds/halcydonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sicheng is not perfect, Taeyong knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is how much we share

**Author's Note:**

> now available in [russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4653369) thanks to the lovely [eviilonskaya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eviilonskaya/pseuds/eviilonskaya)! ♥♥♥

Taeyong has fought so long and hard to debut. But to debut _twice_ within a few months, even to him, is a little bit more than excessive. 

It’s not just the practicing and performing — he can deal with that, he’s dreamed of that for years. It’s experimenting with the new dance, writing the new rap, becoming comfortable with a new team of _members_ that is so taxing. He returns to the dorms every evening both mentally and physically exhausted.

127's just come back from fine tuning the dance for their next performance, and mostly everyone is dead asleep. There’s a lot to coordinate and a lot of things that can go wrong, especially when they’re all so damn _tired_ all the time. Taeyong often finds that he spins off beat during the pre chorus, and they all have dropped Sicheng and Donghyuck more than once during practices. He rubs at his breaking back and shakes the soreness out of his arms as he putters to his room with a groan. 

"Taeyong-hyung..." a small voice whispers in the quiet, and Taeyong whips around, heart racing. 

But it's just Sicheng, looking small as he peeks from behind the bathroom door. Taeyong breathes to calm his pulse and runs his fingers through his hair. 

”Sicheng-ah, what's the matter?" he sighs, but the boy just jerks his head as if to say _come here_. His eyes flicker around, like he's trying to hide something.

“H-help?" Sicheng says, sounding almost... scared. Alarmed, Taeyong follows as he flits back into the bathroom. 

It’s a tight squeeze, even though Sicheng is practically sitting up on the sink and Taeyong's back is against the door. There’s gauze and alcohol wipes on the top of the toilet tank, and different tubes of what looks like medicines. Sicheng seems to be avoiding Taeyong’s gaze.

"Sicheng-ah, what's going on?" Taeyong asks seriously, but Sicheng just bites his lip and furrows his brow, thinking hard to search for the words. 

“I can get Kun if you need?” Taeyong offers. At that Sicheng shakes his head violently. 

“Kun-ge is... busy,” he says, and it's hard to get out in Korean. “Don’t want to… burden him.” He hesitates and crosses his arms over his chest, makes himself look so small and frail and desperate and _lonely_ in Taeyong's eyes. 

"Help? Please?" he finally says, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling up.

And then Taeyong sees the bruises. There’s a long one that stretches across Sicheng’s stomach just above his waistband. Two more that reach around his shoulders and between the joints of his arms. And there are dozens of others on his elbows and hips and forearms, some haphazardly covered with bandages and tape. They’re dark, fresh, and probably painful, and Taeyong sees some flaking skin and blood. 

The wounds are from the belts that Yuta and Mark have used to practice lifting Sicheng for their performance. From each time they dropped him, or every failed flip. With all of the last minute practices, the music shows and performances, their dancing has been stripping off Sicheng’s skin and rubbing his flesh raw. 

“Oh,” Taeyong breathes. 

Sicheng drops his shirt, hiding the wounds from sight, and scrambles to press the medicine into Taeyong’s fingers. 

“Help,” he repeats, more urgently this time. Taeyong turns the tubes in his hands and frowns. 

“Foot cream,” he murmurs to himself. “Burn heal, poison ivy…” He glances up. “Sicheng-ah, none of these are going to help. Who got these for you?”

It dawns on Taeyong, then, that Sicheng has not told anyone about his wounds. He’d probably gone into a pharmacy and picked up anything he could on the shelves, unable to read any of the labels. It must have cost him a small fortune.

“I'll be back,” Taeyong says, waiting until Sicheng nods in understanding before slipping out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He overturns half of his drawers before finding some antibiotic ointment and bruise cream. 

When he returns, Sicheng has taken his shirt off and is pressing gingerly at the bruises, watching as they fade and then bloom back, black and blue. He must have been holding the pain in for at least a few days for the wounds to have gotten this bad. 

And all this time, Taeyong’s tried his hardest to not talk down to Sicheng or baby him because Sicheng is not stupid, and he’s not a child. He needs support and not cuddling, understanding and not pity. But Taeyong can’t hide the sharpness of the concern in his voice or the high, child-like tone when he whispers, “Hurts?” 

“I’m okay,” Sicheng replies too quickly. It sounds genuine, but his eyes are tight. 

Taeyong kneels so that he’s at eye level with the largest bruise on Sicheng’s stomach and begins to dab cream onto the wound with his fingertips. He’s no expert, and Sicheng hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” Taeyong murmurs under his breath as he moves to the bruises on Sicheng’s shoulders. 

Sicheng tries to keep quiet after that, and Taeyong quickly applies antibiotics and tapes gauze over the spots where the skin has peeled enough to reveal blood. He stands, stretching out his sore back, and Sicheng takes it as a cue to shrug his shirt back on. 

“Taeyong-hyung is…” Sicheng pauses, and presses his lips into a frown. Opens his mouth again, but can’t seem to find the right words. 

“ _Rouhe?_ ” he tries in Mandarin, but Taeyong just shakes his head. Sicheng hesitates, hovering as though asking for permission, but then he puts one hand at Taeyong’s elbow. Taeyong freezes as Sicheng brushes Taeyong’s forearm with his other hand, so lightly that Taeyong can barely feel the touch.

“Soft?” Sicheng finishes in Korean, dropping his hands as if embarrassed. Taeyong's chest hurts with the uncertainty in Sicheng's voice, and he reaches up to ruffle Sicheng’s hair.

“Gentle,” he corrects, quiet. “You think I'm... gentle. That's — Thank you, Sicheng-ah.” 

“Thank you, hyung,” Sicheng returns clumsily, ducking his head. He smiles, but it’s unnaturally wide with the too-big veneers he’s only just got in his mouth to fix his crooked canines. In the cheap light of the bathroom Sicheng’s cheeks are ruddy, and he has acne beginning to show by his nose. There are other tiny imperfections that Taeyong notices when they’re this close — Sicheng’s pointy right ear, his uneven eyelids, the contour of the bags under his eyes. They’re all tired after the relentless practice, the stress — Sicheng even more so, probably, because he doesn’t even have the language skills to tell the members when his body is breaking down in front of his eyes. 

Taeyong presses his lips into a thin line, and his heart swells because he knows how hard it is to smile when in so much pain. “Let me know if you want to change the bandages,” is all he can choke out, and he turns to give Sicheng some privacy, as well as to collect himself.

But before he can leave, Sicheng grabs his wrist, hard. Taeyong turns and is surprised at the intensity that he sees in Sicheng’s eyes, mixed with tinges of sadness and frustration.

“I will. Be better,” Sicheng says slowly. “I… promise.”

It's a loaded statement, Taeyong knows. It's not just about Sicheng's Korean, or his singing and rapping. It's about confidence, fearlessness, and strength. It's about the courage that Sicheng had to muster to leave his homeland and fight to debut in another country, and the resilience he will need for the brutal years ahead. 

Taeyong has seen dozens of trainees drop out of the company over the years, go to college or back to their own homes in hopes for a happier, easier life. He's seen members of the greatest groups in Kpop leave in agony from the comments, the hate, and the disappointment. Taeyong’s thought of it too, sometimes, when stares turned hostile and his own members began to suffer from his stupid childhood mistakes. 

Maybe Sicheng will leave like the others, eventually. But that won't stop Taeyong from treating his wounds now, or from holding his hand when he knows Sicheng needs the extra strength to carry on. 

_I will protect you_ , Taeyong thinks, but he doesn't know if Sicheng will understand. 

"I believe in you," he says instead, with so much conviction that he knows Sicheng will feel the heat behind the words, the promise Taeyong is giving him. 

There's a loud burst of laughter coming from the kitchen, and the sound of crinkling plastic and aluminum. The members decided to treat themselves to take out, perhaps, after a long week of practice. 

"C'mon, let's join the others," Taeyong offers, and Sicheng smiles so wide, genuine. It's a smile that shows all of his teeth, makes the apples of his cheeks pop, crinkles his eyes into slits. 

"Okay," he says. And when Taeyong holds out his hand, Sicheng doesn't hesitate to take it.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://oh-sicheng.tumblr.com/) if you want to cry with me over taewin + the preciousness that is dong sicheng.


End file.
